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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23522101">World History of A World That Wasn't</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/alephthirteen/pseuds/alephthirteen'>alephthirteen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Columbia-verse [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Arthurian Mythology, Historical RPF, Merlin (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Add Magic to Taste, Cunning ahead, F/F, F/M, If We Don't Behave She Is Turning This Civilization Right Around!, Quite Frankly The Goddess Has HAD IT With This Shit!, Season with Male Tears, Sorceresses ahead, possible vampirism, tw: sexism, tw: sexual abuse mentioned</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 14:27:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,896</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23522101</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/alephthirteen/pseuds/alephthirteen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>History has many heroines: queens, barbarians, pirates, schemers, sword-wielding singers, activists, brick-throwing queers, isotope identifying chemists, Nazi-murdering escapees...</p><p>Many times over, a woman has seized power.  In many cases, we know their name <strong>because</strong> a woman in power "back then" was unusual. We pat ourselves on the back because "it's better now" except that "back then", it was happening.   </p><p>Often, she was violently thrown down, or else ruled long, well, and prosperously, then lost her crown or her power to a lack of heirs or male-centric laws of succession.</p><p>What if that hadn't happened?<br/>What if, at a few moments, some guardian goddess pulled the strings, just a bit?  A warning, a bit of better luck, so on.<br/>What happens when a few strands from history unravel to make the Battle of the Sexes a fair fight?<br/>What if those queens whose names remain famous millennia later for their boldness, were famous for their <strong>dynasties</strong>?<br/><br/>How does our world look now?   How would the men of the ruling class deal with that?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Columbia-verse [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1379410</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Defense of Dissertation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This work came about from two inspirations:</p><p>Buying the book "Rejected Princesses" for my niece.  We will be getting most of our historical figures from it.<br/>Driving to work listening to a playlist on my Spotify (seriously!) by an artist name Karliene.  Several of our heroines have songs there.<br/></p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Nov. 2016 -- Boston</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Amelia's phone is buzzing off the table.</p><p><br/>
"What the…"</p><p><br/>
She glances up from the cherry-red Olympia she uses when she's stuck.  Smearing the ribbon ink on a wet wipe, she tilts her phone to look at it.</p><p><br/>
[CNN Breaking News:  Donald Trump Predicted to Win Presidental Election]</p><p><br/>
Blowing out a long, stilling breath, she flings her phone into the hamper and screams her throat raw.  Her notch eared siamese hisses and scrabbles away under the bed.</p><p><br/>
"Sorry, Cleopatra."</p><p><br/>
Winding the wheel slowly, Amy takes out the last page of her dissertation and sets it on the neat, now worthless stack.  What good was women's studies, in the end?</p><p><br/>
Sliding in a fresh sheet, she begins anew:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Dear Goddesses,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>What the actual fuck?  Why are you doing this to us?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sincerely,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Your Daughter Amelia</em>
</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. England's Hour of Need</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The one where Morgana gets the girl, Brexit has pissed off the wrong people, and possession of Excalibur is legally binding.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you thought I was using a non-Katie McGrath version of Morgana, I think you're following the wrong author!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>Wales</b>
</p><p> </p><p>A young woman in a black gown with a ragged hem walks down the highway, her chest heaving and her lip twitching.  A raven trails her, cawing and screeching and occasionally diving, trying to perch in the crown of obsidian ringlets she wears.</p><p>It's as if the bird is trying to talk her out of something.</p><p>Three men lean against the door to the local pub.  They reek of cheap fish, cheap chips, cheap beer and cheaper manners.</p><p>"Where you goin', lil bird?"</p><p>"Camelot."</p><p>"That's in America, innit?  Some bloke named Kennedy, I think."</p><p>"Camelot," she repeats.  "If you value your lives, point me to Camelot."</p><p>"Right, this lass just needs a bit of fu-"</p><p>She flicks her right hand and the man's neck twists.  He falls, his nerveless legs scrabbling against the pavement.  In the gathering night, her eyes are like two golden rings, bright as a torch and dangerous as a hot forge.</p><p>"Camelot!  Where is Camelot?" she bellows.</p><p>"I don't know about Camelot, lady," the skinny one whimpers, "But there's an Avalon Lake Park.  Not far. You can take my car."</p><p>He points to an ancient station wagon in dead-fish gray and kneels down, putting the keys at her feet.</p><p>"I hope you find Arthur, or whoever."</p><p>"Arthur?" she scoffs.  "I've no use for a pretty boy.  Your name, man?"</p><p>"Harry.  Harry Fletcher."</p><p>"Hmm.  English name?"</p><p>"Aye, my mum wanted me to fit in."</p><p>She scowls.</p><p>"When I return, I want you to give me a name, a <em> proper </em>name.  Untainted by Saxons and untouched by your God."</p><p>She takes the keys, staring at them with a cocked head.</p><p>"These will not do."</p><p>Shaking the raindrops off her hand, she runs a finger down the key.  The shaft lengthens, broadens and sharpens.</p><p>"Mmm.  Better," she purrs, running a finger down the edge until it catches her skin.</p><p>The blood flows, trickling through the grooves toward the hilt.  As it dries, it leaves silver and gold and where it pools, fat rubies sprout. The drop dangling from the end unfurls into a long, white ribbon.  Then her skin knits.</p><p>"Perfect."</p><p>Turning her head to the Volvo, she speaks to the sky.</p><p>"Starling!" she bellows.  "Return to me!"</p><p>A bolt of lightning drops from a calm, misty sky and strikes the car park.</p><p>Where the car had been, a salt-white horse stands, barded in chain and saddled with calfskin.  From its reins hang flags emblazoned with yew trees and a prancing dragon.  The steed is massive and sinewy.  A mare, to be sure, but not a farmer's beast.   </p><p>The rider only approaches the beast's shoulders if the cowl on her cloak is considered.  She fists the reins in her hand and vaults onto the creature's back.</p><p>"Remember, Harry.  A name. A name from <em> this </em>land."</p><p>"Yes, miss.  How'll I find you?"</p><p>She raises an eyebrow.  Her eyes have returned to their previous green shade and have a dimmer glow, or perhaps it's just a trick of the mind.</p><p>"When I'm done, all will know the name Morgana Le Fey."</p><p>She cracks the reins and Starling leaps, carrying her down the street faster than the raven can follow her.</p><p>The pub's door cracks open and the owner pokes her head out.</p><p>"The fuck was that?" she grumbles.</p><p>"Some lady looking for Camelot.  Killed Frank."</p><p>"Well, he was a proper rat.  What'd she do to him?"</p><p>Harry looks from Frank's broken, yet unblemished body, to the sizzling, red hot depressions of horseshoes where his car was.</p><p>"Magic, I think."</p><p>"Well," Ann chortles.  "About time the girls of today took some bloody initiative!"</p><p>-----</p><p>The tomb is ransacked.  How, Morgana neither knows, nor cares.  Arthur's grave is pilfered and broken, fingerbones are scattered about where they pried the rings off.</p><p>"My love," Morgana snivels.  "Where are you?"</p><p>Blue flame fills a torch at the far end of the crypt.</p><p>"Really?" Morgana asks.  "A secret passage?"</p><p>"So predictable, Gwen."</p><p>A peal of laughter from nowhere carries through the foul, dusty air.</p><p>"Now, then, my moon and stars, let's put this kingdom back on track."</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Dec. 2016 -- London</b>
</p><p> </p><p>The bodyguard nods slightly as she approaches.</p><p>"Madam Prime Minister."</p><p>Theresa nods back.  Her secretary is waiting just inside the door.  Useful man.</p><p>"What do we have, John?"</p><p>"President-elect Trump's congratulation call."</p><p>She pinches her nose.</p><p>"Bloody hell.  Do I have to?"</p><p>"It is traditional," he reminds her.</p><p>The fireplace belches forth a long tongue of flame and two women appear.  One is tawny, freckled and stout, armored in gleaming steel and carrying a long, jewel-hilted blade on her hip.  The other is black-haired, shorter, and pale-skinned. Green-eyed and sneering, she is clad in silver robes that whip and flutter in the still air of the apartment as if it were a windy hilltop.  Above her left palm, a group of crystals dance in mid-air.</p><p>"Fuck tradition," the dark-haired one snarls.</p><p>"Your work is done, madam.  We'll be taking it from here," the armored one assures her.</p><p>"Taking what?"</p><p>"England, of course.  Don't you recognize Excalibur?" she teases, pulling the blade from its sheath.  "Ah. Well, I'm sure you tried your best."</p><p>She glances to John.</p><p>"Be a dear, fetch a crier.  Tell them that Gwenierve Pendragon of Camelot takes the throne at dawn."</p><p>"I wager the queen might enjoy retirement," John jokes.</p><p>The crystals rise higher from the brunette's hand and glow brighter, brighter, brighter until they are stealing all the light in the room and until the streetlights outside flicker and finally go dark.</p><p>"I have a delicious idea, love.  But it will make a mess."</p><p>"Oh?" Gwen asks.</p><p>"Mmm.  On the solstice, it will be as easy as a snap of the fingers.  Everyone should probably leave the city, just for safety's sake."</p><p>"Is this a terrorist attack?" Theresa demands.</p><p>"It is justice!" the brunette roars.  "It is making Britain what it should be!  Under this moon. Morgana, druidess, sorceress and the last living descendant of Anu, will carve justice and greatness from this land's pathetic history!"</p><p>"Go on love," the knight chuckles.  "Dawn's not far off."</p><p>One of the crystals shatters.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm sure a magical explosion in London, on the solstice, by a semi-unhinged and likely extremely horny sorceress will be fine!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Book of England -- Gingers, Mothers, and Flaming Ruins</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Where Boudica's revenge meets her daughter's common sense, where Rome really isn't as powerful as it thinks, and where it's so easy to lose a legion in the mists.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>BACKGROUND:</p><p>In roughly 60 AD, an Iceni queen named Boudica was insulted by the Roman rulers her late husband had struck a deal with.  The deal was that her two daughters, inherited the kingdom and the Romans received tribute.  Instead, all her debts were called, new debts were added, their land was taken, she was flogged, and her daughters were raped.</p><p>In other words, the Romans were <strong>really</strong> asking for it. She rampaged through the countryside of Roman Britain, burning Calendonium and Londonium (yes that London).  Her horde numbered 200,000 according to the Roman historian Tacitus.  She was defeated by a regrouped Roman force with minimal loss to the Romans.</p><p>Following her rediscovery, she has become a folk hero in Britain.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>1st Century AD -- Roman-held Britain</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Exhausted, filthy, and aching, Brigit topples into the cell.  Her sister Isolde is curled in the corner, bruised, naked, and enraged.  Her eyes -- green, like her mothers -- are bloodshot and raw.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"See you in the morning, little girl," the legionnaire sneers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The lock turns and the click is like thunder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"How can I help, sister?" Isolde asks.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Strangle me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A sad sort of smile is on Isolde's battered face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"No.  I heard them talking.  Calendonium burned a half-moon ago.  Melted down like a clay pot, they said."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Why do I care?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because the horde was led by an Iceni queen."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brigit pushes herself up on battered arms.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Mother."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Isolde's ginger eyebrow raises.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yes.  A hundred thousand men, they think.  They've called up two legions to crush her."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Then they'll do it," Brigit sighs.  "They did before."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Isolde shakes her head.  Roman blood and skin is under her nails and trapped between her teeth.  Roman seed is in her belly and if it grows, she'll tear the babe open with her teeth before it can take a breath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"A hundred thousand men in one place, yes.  A hundred thousand men in a thousand places?" Isolde muses.  "Not likely. They haven't taken the Picti lands yet, and not for lack of men.  For lack of balls and lack of brains."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Brigit sighs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What does it matter?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Isolde lays down beside her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Because, little sister, when they scream fire, we need to escape.  And we need to help mother keep her head. You know how stubborn she gets. We need to make her listen.  Promise me."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She takes Brigit's hand and presses it to her cheek.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I promise, sister."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good.  Rest. I'll wake you if anything happens."</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>FUN FACTS:<br/>* One of the legions routed by Boudica's forces was the Legio IX Hispania, now popularly known as the "Lost Legion" which, according to one theory, was wiped out in Scotland in roughly 80 AD.<br/>* The Iceni practiced a ritual where they would behead their enemies, embalm the heads, and mount them on chariots.<br/>* Among the things we know about this revolt is that a Roman town of the period, burned to the ground, forms a layer of broken and melted clay for later archeologists to find.  These layers are about six inches thick.  </p><p>MORAL OF THE STORY:<br/>Never let a Roman general choose the terms of engagement!</p><p>MY TWIST:<br/>Sometimes daughters have to remind their moms to go back to guerilla tactics!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Phone Call</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Where butterfly effects effect and ripples in ponds ripple and orange men are in a lot of trouble, diplomatically speaking.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The changes hit the modern world all at once.  Naturally, certain people weren't in on the joke.<br/>These are just the obvious changes...</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>Jan. 2017 - Washington, DC</strong>
</p><p> </p><p>Steve Bannon directs traffic, shouting and scrunching up his spotted face with all the charm of a diseased raisin.</p><p>"Get it done, Sean!  The largest crowd ever, you got that?"</p><p>"Yes."</p><p>He grabs a passing female staffer.</p><p>"Have someone fake up the photos."</p><p>"On it."</p><p>He tilts the door to the Oval Office partway open.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck me, he can't even figure out the telephone...</em>
</p><p>"Congratulations call in one minute, Mr. President."</p><p>The lights flicker and a warm breeze that smells like mint and ginger ruffles the curtains.  The Secret Service glance around.</p><p>"Go ahead and put it on speaker, Sir."</p><p>Donald tries to get the first word in but, amazingly, for once, he can't.</p><p>"So it's true," sighs a heavily accented female voice.  At her end, a rapid-fire stream of Chinese is barked at some subordinates.</p><p>"Afraid so," adds an Englishman with a baritone and what is <em>not </em>an upper-class accent.</p><p>"I already knew," a woman purrs.  "The doves told me."  Her accent is thick, Germanic, and delicious.</p><p>"Who the fuck are you people?" Donald bellows.</p><p>"Oh, yes.  Terribly sorry," the Brit babbles.  "Lord Baird Tudor.   Prince of Wales and Head of the Order of Excalibur.  I would say that I'm at your service but..." </p><p>He sighs.</p><p>"Seeing as how my mother couldn't be pissed to speak to you on an empty schedule, I don't think we <em>are </em>in your service. Ta!"</p><p>
  <strong>Click.</strong>
</p><p>"Empress Ling, of the Zhao Dynasty.  Hundredth of my line.  Who are you supposed to be, exactly?"</p><p>She too hangs up.</p><p>"I believe I had some taxes to do," the Kraut grumbles.  "Sounds more interesting."</p><p>"I want your name!" Donald roars.  "You can't speak to me this way!"</p><p>"Bathory, Mr. Trump.  My name is Angela Bathory.  Speaking for the good people of Germany, I would advise you buy a book on etiquette.  Speaking personally, I would advise you to take exquisite care before telling my family what we can and cannot do."</p><p>
  <strong>Click.</strong>
</p><p>"It was a prank, right?" Kushner demands.</p><p>Bannon looks down at his phone.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>"Not according to Wikipedia or their government's websites."</p><p>"It has to be!  Communist China didn't ju-"</p><p>Kushner drops his phone.</p><p>"Lose the war and never exist?  Seems so.  And...King Arthur was real."</p><p>The female staffer from before pokes her head in.  The one Bannon picked for her tolerance to "locker room talk" and her ability to pretend she likes it.</p><p>"Mr. President, you'll love this.  That vampire who is PM of Germany?  She's an eleven, not a ten."</p><p>"Fuck off," Kushner snaps.</p><p>"She has a YouTube on safe feeding.  Hey, Clarice!" she calls to a friend in the hallway.  "Would I look good in a red scarf?"</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Don't worry.  Someone will still remember the old timeline...Trump and his family.  Everyone else will think they're making shit up.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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